


up in our bedroom, after the war

by Randstad



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 04:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20128999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randstad/pseuds/Randstad
Summary: The plan was to be in a skirt by the time Stephen came home, because Stephen had made too many housewife jokes lately, as if there were things for a pointedly retired superhero father to do other than learn how to make his daughter something better than dinosaur nuggets.





	up in our bedroom, after the war

**Author's Note:**

> A post-Endgame AU where Tony lived because Stephen flipped the universe the double bird and saved him and after a fraught emotional odyssey they are tentatively in a relationship where Tony is a soft retired dad and Stephen has too many emotions and a limited capacity for self-expression. I have a brain binder full of dumb ideas like this. It will never see daylight so this is actually just a PWP
> 
> Only casually proofread. Content warning for feminisation kink featuring cis men, including use of slang for vaginas. Please read at and with your own discretion.

The five-year timeframe that Stephen had spent nonexistent had widened the age gap between them. Stephen, in the prime of his caped career and working his ass off, found it charming. If Tony thought about it too hard he’d think about finiteness, fragility. How his own parents had decades and there wasn’t a soul in the world with whom Tony had made it to the plural. There was a white-knuckled afternoon where Stephen sent a voice message to say he’d be home at nine and didn’t so much as grace the doorway till after midnight and Tony just about smacked the emergency button he’d sworn to two partners now that he didn’t have to go shove a rocket up a demon’s ass. This was the point Tony had to concede, grudgingly, that Pepper had been right about for fifteen years; that he’d put her through hell; that karma was, in fact, a bitch.

The plan was to be in a skirt by the time Stephen came home, because Stephen had made too many housewife jokes lately, as if there were things for a pointedly retired superhero father to do other than learn how to make his daughter something better than dinosaur nuggets. 

Problem was, he burned the shit out of the dinner, so when the door opened he had it rehearsed. Good roleplay, a bottle of wine on the countertop, and food that he fully intended to discreetly throw out later. He flipped off the stove and washed his hands briskly. “Good morning, starshine,” he called.

“It’s dinnertime,” the voice rang back dispassionately from the doorway. “Is something burning?”

“No.” He reached down to smooth over the pleat of the skirt and pull up a lilting knee-high sock. “Though there _is_ something hot in here. You might want to skip to dessert.”

The Cloak sailed around the corner, took one look at Tony, then whisked itself away, shaking its collar in dismay. He thought, _Listen, pal_— 

But then Stephen too was rounding the corner with his bag in-hand and stopping in his tracks. “Oh,” he said. And then, with forced lackadaisicalness, he said, “Nice skirt.”

Tony leaned against the granite countertop, spread his hands against the edge and crossed one ankle over the other. Naturally coquettish: physical expressions of charm for Tony had always been like riding a bike. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Stephen put his bag down. Between one ripple of awareness and the next it was gone. Stephen was just meandering towards him, looking him up and down, over and over again. 

“I just might,” he said slowly. “To what, exactly, do I owe the pleasure?”

Most people could be either coy or honest but rarely both. Tony, a man for all seasons, said, “Mostly I wanted you to owe me one.” 

And then Stephen was in front of him, was dropping to his knees like a man possessed, and Tony sucked in a breath as he reached for him. His scarred fingers rumpled the fabric up, up, exposing suntanned thighs; there was a liquidity to the way his eyes tracked each new inch of exposed skin. Tony arched his back and bent a knee, a socked heel resting against the cabinet for the money shot—

“Fuck,” Stephen breathed, because Tony was already hard, and the panties were red and they were _lacy_ and just so damn snug. “Oh, fuck.”

“I know,” Tony said gloatingly, facetiously. Happily. “Can you _believe_ we have the same favorite color? Brings the list of things we have in common to—_shit_—”

He was cut off by Stephen shoving his face in the skirt because he was the worst person Tony had ever met. _Scented_ him. There was no other word for it: he shoved his face into the crease of Tony’s thigh near his cock trapped in the panties and inhaled, long and slow and arrhythmic. 

He stayed there for awhile, breathing him in in a way that might’ve been creepy if he were anyone else. Just as Tony was beginning to move past the sudden dryness in his throat to start cracking wise again Stephen’s mouth finally drifted further inward. There was a flood of rich, warm sensation: Stephen mouthing at his balls through the lace with exquisite delicateness. Like suckling ripe fruit. 

“Doc.” Tony swallowed when Stephen’s eyelashes didn’t even flutter. “_Stephen._”

That mouth withdrew. In the same moment Tony could just about feel his capacity for coherent thought returning, at proportionately the same speed, but then Stephen brushed a reverent kiss to his erection over the silk and lace and his mind whited out again. When he came to Stephen was smouldering up at him, his expression like the blade of a knife. 

“You look pretty,” Stephen said conversationally. The only hint that he was outrageously turned on was the sudden influx of dark smoke in his voice. 

That and, well. The hard-on.

“You gonna do something about it?”

Stephen’s hands found their way to his hips—

—they dropped into the bedroom in a shower of sparks, Tony laughing helplessly as he felt himself manhandled to the bed, cut off again this time by Stephen’s grinning mouth, his searching tongue, the heat of him as he covered Tony like a shadow. He reached up and gripped his face, kissed him with the kind of energy he once didn’t quite believe he could muster up in his early fifties. Crazy the things you can figure out when you want them badly enough. Time travel. Retirement. Bottoming to wizards.

Stephen’s hands pulled at his clothes. He raised his arms compliantly, and when his shirt was pulled over his head and his vision restored he found that Stephen was magically already naked.

“Cheater,” Tony said, with as much accusation as he could muster. It wasn’t much: Stephen was attacking his throat and collarbones with teeth, wet hot sucking bites, his hands groping over Tony’s sides and the lingerie. 

He squeaked as a tongue laved over a nipple. “You’re so damn pretty,” came the fevered voice against his skin. “Did you get pretty for me, Tony, were you hoping I’d take care of you—” 

Tony was a sucker for being taken care of, and besides he didn’t know what to do with all the aching debt in Stephen’s eyes whenever he looked at him other than smirk and touch and soothe. “Yeah,” he said, at first because he was good at sex and thought it was just what Stephen wanted to hear. But then he found, with odd and intoxicating relief, that it was true. He was retired. The universe all accounted for. He didn’t _have_ to do anything. Just let Stephen love him. “Yeah, I did. Baby, please.” 

“Please what.” As exacting as a schoolmaster, as if Stephen’s scarred fingertips weren’t hooked in the waistline of the panties and drawing it down just enough to free the flushed head of Tony’s cock. As if he wasn’t twisting above Tony just so in a way that made it easy for Tony to draw his knees up alongside Stephen’s sides, stretch out under him in yearning, dizzy and dripping against his own belly.

“Fuck me,” Tony said.

Stephen had the gall to smile at him, smug and beatific all at once, as if Tony had accomplished something in just the asking. Maybe he had. A rough and slightly shaking thumb was hooking in the panties to push them aside just so; his fingertips came up again to brush up against the cleft of Tony’s ass. Tony arched his back again, lidded his eyes for money shot number two—

And, oh, when Stephen’s fingers slid inside him, slick and easy and all the way up to the knuckles. Stephen let out a low unpronounceable curse, fucked his fingers inside Tony a few times and watched his fingers push against fabric and hot skin and lube smears.

He let his hand draw back, transfixed by the flutter of Tony’s hole around the absence of him. “Tony,” he said roughly.

Tony made a pretense of anxiously squeezing his thighs together, batting his eyelashes in a way that was definitively ridiculous. “I got so _wet_ just thinking about you today.” Extremely Brazzers, he knew, just as much as he knew Stephen was too cranked to give a shit. The affectation in his voice was easy as a result. It was all easy. Just lie back and let Stephen love him. 

Stephen dropped his head for a moment, breathed. “Fuck,” he said. It was almost visible, that moment when he punched the timecard on what Tony was sure was a cerebral day. He shoved Tony onto his belly, shoving the skirt up again, pushing the panties to the side so he could line up and press close. 

“Yeah,” Tony sighed. Then his voice melted, puddle-like, into moans as Stephen started to work his way inside him, make a home for himself inside Tony’s ass with his ridiculous cock. “Oh, _yes_.”

And, well, he’d always been a showboat. His knees spread wider on the bedsheets, the curve of his spine inviting, his ass probably a strong contender on most websites even all these years gone. Stephen’s hands found his waist instinctively. If he concentrated he could feel the imprint of each individual scar, slightly raised from the skin, cooler than Tony’s own body which was burning up fast; but then he couldn’t concentrate, because Stephen started to move just then, a slow and langorous fuck so he could relish the sight. All Tony had to do was drop his head and sound out the pleasure that wrenched its way through his body. Which he did, gloatingly. Happily. 

He didn’t know how long he spent like that, exactly, with the steady grind of Stephen’s cock against his prostate and his cock pushed up against his belly with the panties. Dripping wet onto himself, on the sheets. His knees started to shake. At first he thought it was the effort of holding himself up on all fours when two of them weren’t always so responsive at the best of times. Just as quickly he knew it was because he was close, because he was getting fucked so good his eyes were glazing over, and if he didn’t come soon he might actually cry.

“Stephen,” he said hoarsely. 

“Mmm.” A hand caressed down the curve of his spine, lingering in the sweat-damp dip of his back. “Yeah?”

Tony swallowed. “Please,” he said, airless, near-silent. “Please, I need ...”

_Please what?_ were normally Stephen’s favorite words in the English language, but this time he didn’t dignify that with a response. His hand was terrifically light on the outside of Tony’s thigh, and inside him his cock was so big he thought he was going to burst, but Stephen always had the intractable steadiness of a man who meditated for hours a day and slept like the dead. 

“... fuck my pussy,” he heard himself say. The words stuck and burned in his throat, distant and too close all at once. Then Stephen shifted his hips again and a whimper squeezed out of him like air from a balloon; he was babbling, not thinking, the phrases spilling out of him from deep in his own memory, the hundred-odd women he’d fucked in his life, the pornographic spectacle he thought he left behind: “Oh god. Oh god. Please, your dick is so good, it’s so _big_, fuck my pussy come in my pussy come on fill it up—Stephen, honey—”

Behind him Stephen made a low incomprehensible sound. He started to fuck him again, punishing thrusts that sounded stupid wet—_juicy_ if Tony thought about it too hard. Now he couldn’t stop thinking it, how much they both loved cunt back in the day but Stephen wouldn’t go looking for it ever again because he had this to look forward to, Tony in skirts and Tony in panties and Tony wet for him. Wanting him desperately, recklessly. Waiting for him to come home.

The orgasm started somewhere in the foundations of him. He felt rather than saw the way his cock jerked and throbbed untouched in the panties; felt the first spatter of hot come as it hit his own belly, drizzled down; saw spots, or maybe stars, or the wetness of his own eyes. At his back Stephen made another low noise, approving, then shoved him down against the bed before he stopped shaking, shoved himself in deep, came. 

There was silence afterwards, framed only by harsh breaths, the engine purr of Stephen panting against first his shoulder and then the back of his neck. After a minute Stephen dropped a kiss there, then another one, another, each shaped more and more like a smirk.

Tony put his head in his arms and tried to remember he had extremities. “Don’t say I never gave you anything,” he said. Maybe slurred. More drunk than he’d been in, yes, years. Now there was a plural if he ever had one—the few promises he ever made, he kept. 

Stephen’s cock winced out of him. He could feel a small rivulet of wet come follow suit. He turned over.

“I also made dinner,” he said after awhile. “So technically you owe me two.”

Stephen cradled his face in two hands. “What don’t I owe you?” he asked softly. 

“Shut up,” Tony said, rising to meet the kiss halfway. It only let up when Stephen needed to breathe. Tony breathed with him. Tried to let it just be breath instead of that tense reminder of survival. 

He just about managed it. They were getting closer every day.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me [@docfission](https://twitter.com/docfission) for dank memes and clutching fanart to my chest and weeping


End file.
